Joan Wolf (15 page)

Catherine Romney’s face looked relieved. “That will be best,” she agreed. She hesitated for another moment, then turned and walked quickly out of the room.

Jessica remained seated for perhaps ten more minutes, and then she, too, rose and walked steadily out the door and down to the carriage that was to take her back to Montpelier Square.

Chapter Nineteen

Love is a law, a discord of such force

That twixt our sense and reason makes divorce.

—
ANONYMOUS

 They had dinner at home that evening. Linton had been out when Jessica returned to Montpelier Square and she had spent an hour lying quietly on her bed conducting a private and unpleasant inventory. Her conversation with Mrs. Romney had merely confirmed what she had known all along.

She could not marry Linton. There was no path that pride, regard, convention, self-respect, and conscience did not block. Nor could she remain with him until March as she had originally planned. He would not wait that long for her answer. And she was afraid to lie and tell him she would marry him. She no longer trusted her ability to deceive him.

She would have to sell the necklace, she decided ruthlessly. That would more than pay for the interest she owed Mr. King. She would do it tomorrow, she thought, despair like dust in her throat. There was no point in prolonging this agony any longer.

Linton was in a carefree mood that evening. He had spent a few hours that afternoon discussing a Reform Bill with Mr. Grey and he was delighted at the thought of returning soon to Staplehurst. He told Jessica all about his home during dinner and she smiled and listened and encouraged him, all the while knowing in her heart she would never see it.

They went into the drawing room after dinner and she asked him a few more questions, the questions of someone curious about a place she is soon to visit. He was sitting in his favorite chair in front of the fire and she sat across from him, her eyes hungry on his strong, cleanly planed face, her ears drinking in the sound of his deep yet curiously soft voice. She watched the brilliant blue of his eyes, the laughter at the comer of his mouth.

Philip, she said silently to herself, over and over. Philip.

The tea tray came in, and as she made the tea and handed him a cup the thought came to her that she would ask nothing more out of life than this, that she should sit just so every night and make him his tea. If she could only stop time and hold this moment forever, she thought. Silence had fallen, but it was the rich silence of deep, inarticulate companionship. He put down his cup and smiled at her, long and lazily. “Let’s go to bed,” he said.

She slept very little that night. She lay quietly against his hard body, and the pain within her was almost unendurable. One more day, she told herself. I will pay off the mortgage tomorrow and buy a ticket on the mail. The day after tomorrow I shall go.

Toward morning she fell asleep and so did not hear him when he got up. She woke as he came back, fully dressed, into the bedroom. “What time is it?” she asked.

He laughed at her. “Eight-thirty, sleepy one. I have an engagement to talk to a man about buying apples and I probably won’t see you until after lunch.”

“Why do you want to buy apples?” she asked, puzzlement and sleep clogging her voice.

He grinned. “I don’t want to buy apples, I want to sell them. My agent has written me about this fellow, so I think I had better see him while I’m here in London.” He crossed to the bed and leaned over, kissing her hard and fierce and quick. “I’ll see you later,” he murmured, his mouth still lightly touching hers. “And I’ll want an answer.”

“Yes.” She watched as he walked away from her and out of the room, and laid back against her pillows once more, her eyes closed.

She transacted her business without difficulty. Mr. King was not happy to see his loan repaid so promptly. He would have liked to have gotten his hands on Winchcombe, but the interest he had made was ample and he was quite pleasant to Jessica.

Her encounter with Mr. King had been far more comfortable than the encounter she had had with Lord Alden earlier in the day. She had been coming out of Hoare’s Bank just as Lord Alden was alighting from his phaeton.

“Miss O’Neill. What an unexpected pleasure.” His strange greenish eyes had glinted between half-closed lids, and Jessica found herself repressing a slight shudder. There was something about this man that gave her a physical and moral chill.

“Lord Alden,” she said, nodded curtly, and made to walk past him. He stepped in front of her.

“The theatre has sorely missed your presence,” he said in his silky voice, and looked at her with eyes that undressed her.

Jessica felt her temper rising. “Indeed?” she replied coldly. “If you will excuse me, my lord, I must be going.”

“Have you thought of my offer at all?” he asked.

“No.”

His eyes narrowed even more until they were barely slits in his masklike face. “I see I have in Linton a formidable rival.”

Jessica’s eyes were gray ice. “There is not even a contest,” she said, and pushed past him to walk to her waiting carriage.

She had arrived home in time for lunch. Linton came in about three o’clock and they decided to go for a ride in the park. When Jessica came downstairs dressed in her riding habit she found him in the hall holding a piece of notepaper in his hand. There was a slight frown between his golden brows, but his forehead smoothed as he looked up and saw her. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to bow out of our ride, Jess. I’ve just gotten a note from my mother. She is in town. I’ll have to go and see her.”

“Of course,” she answered quietly. He stood absorbed in thought for a moment and the frown crept back between his brows. “I’ll be back tomorrow before lunch,” he said then, decisively. “Don’t look for me tonight.”

“All right.”
Her voice gave no hint of the desolation that had just swept through her. She would not see him again.

He bent over and lightly kissed her cheek. “Chin up, darling,” he murmured, then he left.

“Will you still be wanting your horse, Miss O’Neill?” the butler asked her.

“No. I mean, yes,” she answered. After all, she had to do something to fill in the hours until tomorrow morning.

She did not sleep at all that night. The mail coach to Cheltenham was not leaving until eleven in the morning, and at six-thirty she rose, put on her riding habit, and walked around to the stables. She felt she had to get out of the house for a while. The hours of the night had been interminable.

Jerry, the groom who usually looked after her horse, was not around, so Jessica saddled the black mare herself. As she was leading Windswept out of the stable Francis, the young boy who assisted in the stable work, appeared with a bucket of water. Jessica smiled at him. “I am taking Windswept for a ride in the park. I shan’t be gone more than an hour.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the boy said, and watched as she walked the horse out of the yard.

Twenty minutes later Jerry appeared. “Where’s the mare?” he asked.

“The lady took him out,” returned his subordinate.

Jerry swore with picturesque amplitude. “That mare has a loose shoe,” he explained, as he saddled Linton’s hack. “She came in with it yesterday. I’d better go after her or she’s going to have to walk home.” He finished saddling Linton’s bay, vaulted into the saddle, and clattered out of the stableyard. He was a block from Hyde Park when he saw Jessica coming out through the gate leading Windswept.

“I knew it,” he muttered to himself and prepared to urge the bay into a canter when he saw a carriage stop in front of Jessica. He pulled up for a minute, and as he watched a dark-haired man in evening dress got out. He turned to say something to the groom who rode beside the driver on the box, and the man jumped down and went to take the horse from Jessica. She appeared to be arguing with the man and Jerry again began to walk the bay down the street toward her. Then, with a suddenness that stunned him, the tall man opened the coach door, grabbed Jessica ruthlessly, and thrust her inside. She screamed once; then the coach door closed and drove briskly off.

Jerry pulled the bay up once more. The groom holding Jessica’s horse began to walk it slowly away, and Jerry looked carefully at his livery, memorizing the colors and markings. Then he turned the bay and rode as fast as he could through the London streets to Grosvenor Square.

Linton’s meeting with his mother had not been comfortable for Lady Linton. She had spoken the truth when she had told Maria that she never interfered in her son’s affairs. But there were times, she had thought to herself as she waited in the Grosvenor Square house for Linton to present himself, when one was justified in interfering. If the circumstances were such that a loved one’s actions were sure to be ruinous, then coercion from the outside was needed. And she was here to apply that coercion.

They had passed the afternoon pleasantly enough. It was after dinner, as they sat in the drawing room before a warm fire, that Lady Linton introduced the subject that had brought her to London. “When are you coming home to Staplehurst, Philip?” she asked.

His long fingers were laced together, and he regarded her over them thoughtfully. “Very soon now, mother. And I shall be bringing my wife home with me.”

“So it is true,” his mother said slowly. “You are serious about this Jessica O’Neill.”

“Yes.”

Lady Linton looked at the shining blond head of her beloved son and then into the brilliant blue of his eyes. She recognized the look his face wore. Under so much that was gentle, patient, and civilized, Linton had passions that were fiercely strong and tenacious. When he gave his love and his loyalty he did not change. If he really loved this girl. . .

“What do you know about this Jessica O’Neill, Philip?” she asked quietly. “What is her family? I did not think I would ever have to remind you of this, but you have a duty to your own family, to your name and to the ancient rank you carry. An Earl of Linton may not do as he pleases, as may another man.”

A gleam had come into those very blue eyes of his. “No, mother, you do not have to remind me of who I am.” His voice was kept, with perceptible effort, quiet and ordinary. “Miss O’Neill is a woman that even an Earl of Linton would be proud to call his wife.”

“So you think, my son. There are others who will think differently.”

“If you are one of those others I shall be sorry, mother,” he replied steadily.

She leaned forward, pleadingly, in her chair. “Philip, think about what you are doing. Please.”

“I have thought about it,” he returned. “My mind is made up.”

They had separated for the night not long after that. Linton had not slept well in his solitary bed, and when a footman came into him at a little after seven-thirty he was wide awake. “My lord,” the servant said hesitatingly, relieved not to be waking him. “There is a groom here from Montpelier Square. He insists he must see you immediately. He says it is an emergency.”

Linton threw back his covers. “Show him up.” When Jerry entered the vast bedroom a few minutes later he found the Earl of Linton with his hair tousled and wearing a dressing gown. “What has happened?” Linton asked curtly.

Jerry told him what he had seen. He described the servant’s livery. Linton swore. “Alden!” he said grimly. “He lives in Mount Street. I’ll go at once.” His eyes, filled with a cold light, briefly rested on his groom’s face. “Thank you. You were right to come to me.” He nodded, and Jerry backed hastily out of the room. He was glad he wasn’t the one who was going to have to face the Earl when he had that look in his eyes.

It took Linton fifteen minutes to get to Mount Street. He left his groom holding the reins of his phaeton and ran up the steps of Alden’s house. Surprisingly, he found the door open. He entered and made a swift search of the downstairs rooms. There was no one around. He took the steps two at a time, and at the sound of a man’s voice, he halted outside an upstairs door. Then Jessica spoke.

Linton tried the door, and this one was locked. “Open up, Alden,” he said clearly, “or I’ll shoot the lock off.”

He heard Jessica cry, “Philip!” and then the door opened. She was standing at the far side of the room. Her hair had loosened and was falling on her shoulders. Her lip was cut; he could see blood on it. And she held a poker in her hand. A slow white rage took possession of Linton.

“Are you all right?” he asked her.

“Yes.” She put down the poker and ran across the room to him. “Thank God you came, though!”

“One of the grooms saw the incident.” He turned from her to look at the man standing midway across the room. Alden took two steps back as he met that gaze.

“I didn’t touch her, Linton,” he said. “There’s no need to look so grim.”

“Go downstairs and wait for me,” Linton said to Jessica.

She hesitated, looked at his face, and went. She walked halfway down the stairs then stopped. She had never seen Linton look like that.  Suddenly she was afraid, even more afraid than she had been earlier. What was Philip going to do? She began to run back up the stairs. When she was nearly at the top her foot caught in the carelessly held-up length of her riding skirt. She felt herself losing her balance and grabbed for the rail. She missed and cried out as she toppled slowly, helplessly, down the long, elegant staircase.

The next thing she knew was Linton’s face, bent over hers. From a long distance away she could hear his voice. He was calling her name. She made a great effort. “Yes?”

“Are you all right, Jess?” His face had come into focus for her now. He looked frightened. “Can you move?”

Slowly she tried to sit up. “Yes,” she said again. She moved her legs. Her body was aching all over and her head hurt, but she could move. He bent and lifted her in strong arms and, gratefully, she rested her face against his shoulder. “My friends will call on yours, Alden,” she heard him say, and then he strode out the front door, still holding her tightly in his arms.

Chapter Twenty

If I could shut the gate against my thoughts